Picking at Scabs
by booksandmusic19
Summary: Remembering old scars is like picking at scabs: painful, but usually accompanied by catharsis. Such is the case when Peter learns about one of Edmund's scars. Set some time after VDT. Brotherfic/no slash.


_Remembering old scars is like picking at scabs: painful, but usually accompanied by catharsis. _

Author's Note: I would just like to say that while the idea for the story is my own, the description of the scar comes from Sentimental Star's "Nighttime Demons". I began thinking how Peter might react to seeing a reminder of such a wound, and because I've been itching to write Narnia fic since seeing "Dawn Treader". And it might have also been the music I've been listening to lately, "Lacrymosa" by Evanescence. So without further ado, I humbly present this little fic.

(Just an aside – the italicized part is a flashback, and my version of Mr. Pevensie sort-of knows about the Narnia adventures)

Disclaimer: I do not own Chronicles of Narnia story or characters.

**Picking at Scabs**

Edmund inspected the small scar on his stomach, just near his pelvic bone, and reached around to touch its twin on his back. It was freezing cold, as always, and it had always served of a reminder of the most horrible thing he'd ever done.

Of all the scars he had accumulated through his years in Narnia, this one frightened him the most. He had never told any of his siblings the full story except Lucy. That day had been a difficult one – he had returned from battle some time after their coronation with a nasty wound to his side. Lucy had refused to let any of the Healers tend to it, preferring to clean it herself.

_He winced as Lucy put cooling salve on the deepest gash. "Oh, Ed! Can't you be a bit more careful?" his sister said, gently joking. "Who were they?" Edmund turned and caught her gaze full-on. "Remnants of the Fell Beasts," he told her. "Including some nasty ogres who seemed to have a personal vendetta." _

"_How did it happen?" She began to wrap a bandage around his torso. He shook his head. "I was stupid. I took on too many of them at once and one of them got through." _

_Lucy gasped, and somehow Edmund knew that it wasn't because of his story. "What?" he asked, but stopped short when he saw where she was looking – at the scar on his back. Though it was older than a year, it was still slightly raw around the edges. And because it was from a magical blade (if one could call it that) he doubted it would ever really heal. _

"_Ed?" his younger sister asked, her voice shaking, and he was reminded of how young she really was. "What's that from?" _

"_Nothing." _

_A short response, mentally begging Lucy not to pry. _

"_It's from Her, isn't it?" She had always been too perceptive, and her question was gentle, nonjudgmental. So he told her. _

_She gasped when he said it, and tears welled in her eyes. He ignored the restriction the bandage had on his movement and leaned forward, attempting to hug her. "I'm here now, Lu, it's all right." He found he was crying as well. "I never hated you, Ed," she cried. "Not when you teased me, or when you left. I just wanted you to – to be all right."_

_He held her, burying his face in her shoulder, and let her cry. When she looked up, he attempted a smile, and she returned it with a wet one of her own. "You should tell Peter and Susan," she said. "They would want to know." _

"_No. Absolutely not." He pushed away from her, not realizing how forceful he was being. "Edmund, you have to, or – or – or I will." She appeared to have made up her mind. He grabbed her by the shoulders, firmly. "No you won't. I know you won't say anything unless you have my consent." _

_She turned away, and Edmund could see he'd hurt her. "Please," he said, and he himself was surprised at how small his voice sounded._

He still felt bad that he had hurt her that day, especially with his betrayal so close to mind. He mentally excused it, though, because he knew that if she had told Susan and Peter, Peter would of course react badly, even worse than Lucy. He would blame himself for his brother's pain. He heard the door open behind him, and he quickly lowered his shirt, turning around.

"Oh hello, Dad," he said, trying to smile nonchalantly. His father came in and sat down on his bed, and said conversationally, "That looks like it was painful." So he hadn't hidden the scar quick enough. He shrugged. "It was." Excruciatingly so. Had his father ever lost all feeling in his legs? Edmund didn't think so.

"What happened? I was in a war, too, you know," his father said. Edmund shook his head and turned away. "Nothing. It's fine now." His father reached forward as if to touch the place where the scar was, but lowered his hand and nodded, looking awkward. "All right. If you want to talk about it…" Edmund nodded, although both of them knew he would never take that invitation.

As his father left the room, Edmund lay back on his bed, remembering fondly their time in Narnia, but not without some wistfulness. He became aware of another presence in the room, and he looked up.

It was Peter, and judging by his expression, he had heard every word of Edmund and his father's conversation. "Was that about that scar of yours? The one you never talk about?" he asked. Edmund looked down and whispered a response: "Yes."

CNCNCNCNCNCNCNCNCNCN

Mr. Pevensie had tried not to feel hurt that his son refused to tell him about his scars. After all, he had encountered such soldiers on the battlefield. And if what his wife had told him about his children was true, they were more apt to share with each other than anyone else, including their own parents.

But a parent is a parent, and so when Mr. Pevensie heard his son demand a response from Edmund he stepped closer to his younger son's door.

"Please don't ask," Edmund was saying, not making eye contact with Peter, who had crossed to stand in front of Edmund. Edmund, in turn, was sitting on his bed, his head in his hands. Peter, it seemed, was not taking no for an answer. "Show me." But behind his son's command Mr. Pevensie heard fear and trepidation.

At this point, with Peter was acting so authoritatively, Mr. Pevensie expected the Edmund that his wife had said emerged after he left for the war to emerge, to lash out violently at Peter and refuse his help. So he was doubly surprised when his younger son obediently lifted his shirt just inches, revealing a scar identical to the one Mr. Pevensie had seen on his back. "Yes, that's the one where Jadis stabbed you," Peter said.

Edmund shook his head and turned around, showing Peter the one on his back. Peter gasped. "That isn't – " Edmund nodded, and Mr. Pevensie saw tears in his eyes.

"It didn't go through your spine, did it?" Peter whispered, horrified. Edmund nodded. "I'm sorry, Pete. I didn't – don't – want you to blame yourself."

Peter was pacing the room now, at once the concerned older brother and the commanding king. "Tell me what happened. _Don't_ leave anything out."

Edmund could see that his brother wasn't going to take no for an answer. He took a deep breath. "You know most of it. She – she stabbed me, with her wand. But it was deeper than it seemed. It went all the way through."

Peter gasped, horrified, and reached out to grip Edmund's shoulder. He let his older brother embrace him, knowing he took comfort in the physical contact. "Your spine?" Peter asked, visibly trembling.

Edmund nodded, and he winced internally as Peter went pale. "Pete, I couldn't move out there. Do you know what it feels like to not be able to move, to try and get out of the way?" He could see that Peter was now trying to hold back tears. "I didn't want to tell you, because I knew you would blame yourself." The tears pricked at his eyes, threatening to overcome his words. He pressed onward. "But Peter, please don't. It wasn't your fault out there. I was trying to protect _you_, I felt horrible because I'd betrayed you."

Peter had pulled Edmund into a firm grasp, hugging him tightly. "I won't lose you, Ed," he whispered, and Edmund was not surprised to see his lip trembling. His own tears suddenly poured over the invisible dams holding them back, and though he tried to hide it, Peter saw them. "I'm so sorry," he sobbed, looking up at his older brother. "I almost got all of you killed, and for what? For Turkish Delight. I was so horrible to you."

He looked up at Peter, whose face held tears of its own. He went on. "And then Lucy found out about it, and I told her. She said she was going to tell you and Susan, but – but I told her not to. And I hurt her then, too."

His older brother sighed. "I'm not angry at you, Edmund. Really. That passed the day you came to Aslan's camp." Edmund didn't believe it. "Really?" Peter hesitated. "Well, all right. The day after that one. The first day I still had lingering doubts, but Aslan trusted you, and so did I. I still do."

Edmund knew those two words had more in them than just what was said aloud, and he buried his face in his brother's shirt, allowing himself once again to become a young ten-year-old boy who had just been attacked, imprisoned, and nearly killed.

The two brothers sat there for some time, comforting each other. Neither saw their father walk down the hall, shaking his head in wonder at how much his sons had changed.

_Because even though they had scars on their bodies, they had worse scars within. Scars that had never fully healed. _


End file.
